


All This and Nothing More

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Fisting, Coitus Interruptus, Come Eating, Complicated Relationships, Consent, Dreams, Explicit Sexual Content, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, Loneliness, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Pre-Poly, Rimming, Submission, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8481808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: It isn't hard for Anders to see that Hawke and Fenris love each other.  But since Hawke ended their relationship, Anders hasn't been able to move on.  So one night, he stops wondering and asks for what he thinks it is that he wants.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [mevima](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mevima/pseuds/mevima), who not only made the wonderful art which inspired a scene in this story, but also beta'd for it too. Our conversations have easily been a highlight of this process, and your comments while editing this piece were spot on. You're a star, mevi.
> 
> Speaking of stars, [Earlgreyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlgreyer) also beta'd this work, and I'd like to extend my most humble thanks to her too. Earl, my darling-dearest, you are not only a wonderful friend, but I can always trust you to give my instinct for wild verbiage a swift chop in the neck, and for that (and many other things) I will always be grateful.
> 
> Finally, thank you to [Mnemosynea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnemosynea/pseuds/Mnemosynea), who organised the Team Blue and Angry Glow Bang event (of which this work is part). I'm still not sure by which sort of dark magic you managed to pull off such a feat of cat-wrangling, but I am deeply in awe.

 In the dark, there is something holding his head down.

 

Anders gasps, panicking.  He opens his eyes, and all he sees before him is blood-red velvet, the surface of which ripples with strange greenish light.  Struggling against the force holding his head in place, the tight grip in his hair, he thrashes wildly, bringing his arms up.  Then a voice speaks from somewhere above him.  “Hey, hey... pretty?  Are you alright?” the voice says, and it’s him, it's Hawke.  This is their bed, these are Hawke’s hands on him, one hand in his hair, the other running down his naked shoulder and back, sending shivers of sensation over Anders’ bare flesh.  He moans, and nods, squeezes his eyes shut again, and feels Hawke rut against his ass.  The grip in his hair changes as Hawke leans down to purr into his ear, “Good.  Now come on.  Say it.”

Anders inhales and whines, “I want you, please, Maker, just fuck me.  Fuck me until I can’t walk, fuck me so I feel you even when you’re not in me.  I want, please, I’m begging, fuck me, fill me, do what you want with me.  Please.”

 

Hawke laughs breathlessly, and the grip in Anders’ hair tightens and shifts again, crushing Anders’ face harder against the pillow.  He’s panting now, short, hard breaths and he fists both hands into the soft pillow for something, anything to hold onto.  It’s lovely like this - the way that Hawke pushes him down, holds him still, his physical strength unequivocal.  And yet, afterwards, when Anders is sobbing with pleasure, barely able to speak, Hawke will take him in his arms and hold him silently, will wash him gently and smile, tell him how beautiful he is.  He groans as the side of Hawke’s hand rubs up and down, in the cleft of his ass, over his hole.  His fingers are slippery with slick, but the touch is not gentle.  Not at all.  It is hard, and hot, and Anders’ feels his toes curl in anticipation, his hips rocking into the mattress beneath.  The breath coming from Hawke is loud now, rasping, Anders can feel his cock pressed against one buttock, and he whimpers, muttering, “Hawke.  Love, please…”

 

“Please _what_?” Hawke demands, the smirk in his voice obvious.  “Maker, you’re beautiful like this.  You still alright to do what we talked about?”

Anders mewls and arches his ass backwards to meet Hawke’s hand, showing Hawke his impatience, his desire.  “Yes,” he gasps, the word seems as if it is blurred at the edges.  He floats on this feeling, barely aware of anything except the friction of Hawke’s hand as it rubs, teasing,  and then gasps as, roughly, Hawke thrusts a finger all the way into him.  The groan he gives is loud, too loud, and he stuffs the pillow into his mouth, biting on it hard, trying to stifle the noise.  It hurts - his toes curl again and he tries to force himself to relax.  “More,” he tries to say, but his mouth is full, and after a few thrusts of Hawke’s hand, another finger joins the first.  Maker, it feels so good.  Hawke curls his fingers and the sensation makes Anders gasp.   _Please!_ he thinks deliriously, _please, please, more, I want everything, everything you have.  Everything you can give me._  

 

Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut, and worms his arm out from under the pillow, his hand joining Hawke’s in his hair.  He can feel Hawke moving his fingers in and out of him, slowly; he pauses, the grip on his hair vanishing as Hawke adds more of the slick, then begins to move again.  Anders groans and bites down on his forearm, the skin and muscle under his teeth yielding, the pain a dull ache.  He ruts into the bed, cock aching, his ass gradually adjusting to the thickness of Hawke’s fingers.  The light, that strange greenish firelight seems to bend and twist under his eyelids as Hawke leans forward again, the familiar bulk of him pressing Anders’ body into the mattress.

“Relax,” Hawke tells him, “Relax, you’re doing so well.  I know you can take more.  Still alright?”

 

“Hunngh,” Anders tells him, his mouth still full of his own flesh.  He nods once, sharply, and Hawke chuckles under his breath.  

“Good,” he tells Anders, and his voice is so rough, so full of want that it makes Anders shiver a little, “You’re gonna roll over for me now.  Roll over so I can see your face when I make you come with my whole hand up inside you.”

The breath shudders out of Anders' lungs as he feels Hawke remove his fingers.  His ass feels stretched, not painfully so, not anymore, but he notices the absence and moves as quickly as he can to get into position again so that Hawke might resume.  Obediently, he waits, allowing Hawke to pull his legs up, position them with the knees bent, calves on his broad shoulders.  Hawke looks down then, dark eyes full of need.  He pauses, just looking at Anders for a moment, then growls, “Touch yourself for me.”

 

Anders pants, feeling his chest heave.  He watches Hawke’s face, that greedy expression, as he reaches down, taking his cock in hand and stroking it firmly.  Even his own touch is good, it feels good just to be watched by Hawke, see the smug triumph in his expression, the wonder just underneath it.  Anders’ balls tighten, and he begins to thrust his hips up into his fist, mouth dropping open a little further.  

Still, he keeps his eyes open, watching Hawke.  There is something here, something which feels like an echo - like this has all happened before.  But as his eyes rove over Hawke’s face, that broad expanse of chest, the whorls of dark hair, the pale green firelight flickering on his skin, Anders begins to lose that sense of deja vu; and when Hawke moves his hand forward, touching his fingertips gently once more to Anders’ ass, stroking just the fingertips across his entrance, the vague feeling disappears almost entirely.

 

“Gonna fuck you, just like we talked about,” Hawke croons, “Gonna put my whole hand inside you, gonna make you come so good.”

“Yeah, oh… yeah,” Anders gasps, “Slow though, right?”

“Yeah,” Hawke breathes, “I’ll go real slow.  Maker, _fuck_ , Anders, you’re gonna look amazing.”  He pauses, looking at Anders seriously, “But you tell me if you need me to stop, okay?  No messing about, pretty.”

“Uh huh,” Anders tells him, and moves his hips again, thrusting back onto Hawke’s hand.  Hawke laughs a little, biting his lip, then reaches down and to one side, the fingers of his other hand still playing at Anders entrance.  The phial of slick comes up to Hawke’s mouth; he uncorks it with his teeth and moves his hand to pour more onto his fingers.  Briefly, he looks at Anders, then corks the bottle again and smiles slyly.  “You think I can make you come so hard you scream?”

 

Anders shivers and feels his cock throb against his belly at the thought of it.  “You can try,” he pants, his guts tightening with pleasure at the smirk that Hawke gives him by way of response.  

“I love it when you’re like this,” Hawke growls, the index finger of one hand beginning to slide in and out of Anders, the fingers of the other hand now drawing loops and strange whirling patterns over Anders’ ribs and chest, through the light scattering of hair.  Anders watches Hawke, arches his hips up as he adds another finger, index and middle now, parting them gently inside, opening him, testing him.  He does not press against Anders’ prostate, but even the faint, occasional brush of his fingers is enough to push him closer to the edge.

 

“Pretty, oh, Anders,” Hawke murmurs again, as he adds a third finger after some interminable period, “Oh fuck, Anders…”

“Please,” Anders whimpers, “More.”  His voice is reedy, pathetic really, but he cannot bring himself to care.  The slide of Hawke’s hand is maddening, wonderful, but Maker, he needs it.  He can feel Hawke’s eyes on him, knows he is watching for any sign that Anders is flagging, and he plays up to the gaze, arching his chest up, his hand in his hair again, feeling himself teetering on the edge between pain and pleasure.  Hawke grunts in approval, and then Anders is breached by a fourth finger.  His eyes have closed while Hawke fucked him loose, but now they fly open, to be met only by the boundless darkness of Hawke’s eyes.  “Maker,” he breathes, “So fucking good, give me everything, every… everything, please.”

Hawke blinks, shifts slightly and nods.  Sweat gleams dully on his temples, and Anders watches in a haze as the fingers already inside him work the muscles looser, feeling so full, so good.  With every breath, he relaxes a little more, until he feels as if he is hanging, suspended in this

 

_this is not real, anders._

 

this wonderful moment.  Distantly, he feels the muscles in Hawke’s shoulder hitching as he works at his own cock.  He arches his head back, his other hand fisting in his hair, breathing deep - the stink of the room, sweat and the bitter scent of the slick, the air too warm and Hawke’s hand, Maker, he sobs the breath he had taken out, the sound loud in the quiet.  Anders' hand moves on himself now, quickly, almost to the point of roughness, and short, sharp noises escape him, noises he is not even aware of making.  Tears seep from under his lashes, but he does not feel them - only feels Hawke’s hand, his thumb nudging the entrance to Anders’ body gently now, almost in and Maker, oh, it feels

 

    _anders.  wake up.  this is upsetting you.  wake up._

 

feels so good, everything else is gone, there is just this ache, this deep ache and knowing that Hawke is here, here with him.  He feels… so safe, his eyes fall closed again as he groans, feels Hawke’s hand working faster, and there, the widest point of Hawke’s hand is almost in, and Hawke whispers, “Pretty, fuck, you’re gorgeous, you’re taking it so well.  Fuck, Anders, I love…”

 

Anders lets out a harsh gasp, and sits up in bed, eyes opening again in the dark.  His chest heaves, his head pounds, sweat prickling, cooling on his skin, on the threadbare sheets.  His cock aches dully.  The firelight, the pillow, the warmth - everything is gone.  “Hawke?” he says into the pitch blackness, and his voice echoes slightly into the cavernous space of the empty clinic.  

 _No,_ Justice tells him.   _I am sorry, Anders.  He is not here.  He is with the elf.  You know this._

“Yeah,” Anders says, speaking out loud, though it frightens him to hear his own voice, so lonely in the huge space.  “I know.  I know.  I just…”  He runs a hand through his damp hair, and releases a shaking breath, feels Justice trying to calm him without knowing how.  He laughs bitterly and shakes his head.  

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispers, wondering what he will do.  Justice curls tighter for a moment as if anticipating something, and Anders feels a wave of tension lap over him.   _I have to do something, anything to be rid of this,_ he tells himself, then swings his legs off the side of the rickety cot.  There will be no more sleep tonight.

 

-|||-

   

The days crawl by.  Today has been unremarkable - begun before the dawn had crept into the cracks of Darktown, Anders had awoken to the sound of knocking at the heavy rusted iron of the clinic door.  It had been an elderly woman, her face a mask of panic as she desperately clung to a heavily bleeding young man.  Together, they had managed to get the man over the threshold and onto a cot; from there, it was a matter of assessing the damage, of healing what could be healed immediately and considering treatment for the rest as he worked.  It was clear from his injuries that the man had been beaten severely - according to the woman who had brought him in, he had been left in one of the dim corridors which wound through Darktown.  Despite the woman imploring him, and Anders’ assurances, he would not talk, not even once Anders had knit his broken ribs and given him a restorative potion for his lost blood.  “What can you do about it?” he’d asked Anders weakly, and Anders could find no answer for him.  

 

As he was cleaning up, Hawke had arrived, had asked if he was available to come with them to rout bandits along the coast.  Briefly, Anders’ eyes had flicked to Fenris, who had held his gaze, his expression neutral.  Anders had frowned at him slightly, confused - then looked back at Hawke’s open smile and nodded his acceptance.  

 

Usually, the clinic fills his days, and that is fine - the clinic, and the underground, and their plans.  But today, it had felt good to work with Hawke again, to stretch his legs and breathe fresh sea air.  And he had noticed that there has been a thaw in his relationship with Fenris too, one which had occurred so slowly that Anders had not noticed it.  Vainly, he hopes that it is not pity on the elf’s part; even the thought of it makes him bristle with irritation.  Throughout the day, and for several weeks now, he had surprised the elf scrutinising him.  And in the distant past, that would have meant one thing - a sneer, and a barbed comment, before Fenris turned away again.  But the long looks which Fenris has been subjecting him to are more often followed by a tiny smile and a shift of the hips, before Fenris finds something else to look at.  Perhaps it is just having spent so much time with each other.  Or the fact that they have a love for Hawke in common.  Anders just doesn’t know.

 

At the end of this day, returned to the clinic to find no patients waiting for the lantern to be lit, he had dropped into his cot, bone-tired.  The smell of lyrium and the Fade still clung to him and his mind was dulled with the exhaustion of keeping the smile pasted to his face, of trying to ignore every loving look, every time Hawke’s hand had reached for Fenris and not for him, the strange feeling he would get when he caught Fenris’ eyes upon him, the strain of avoiding Hawke’s gaze.  Yes, he was tired.  But he did not sleep for long.

 

Because tonight, Anders has been plagued by dreams again.  They are always the same, and they come to him every night now.  Beautiful memories for the most part; dreams of watching the stars slowly wink into existence from the summit of Sundermount, Hawke’s arm around his shoulders.  Or of waking in the early morning to smile at Hawke’s deep snoring, or the sweet slide of their bodies together.  Always, it is Hawke.  Each night, Justice awakens him from them.  He can feel the spirit’s growing distress at the intrusion of these thoughts, feel his helplessness at being unable to stem the tide of Anders’ unhappiness.  

 

But what is there to do?  Will he wait, the dreams growing worse every day until they drive him to despair?  Or should he try to find solace in the arms of another?  He shudders at the thought, sitting cross-legged on the cot, the dank, heavy night of Darktown held at bay by his one flickering candle.  Justice turns and turns within him, agitated, a knot of confusion, mimicking Anders’ emotional state.   _There is one thing you haven’t tried yet,_ he thinks to himself, and images blaze to life in his mind's eye; the glimmer of the ice blue of Fenris’ markings, his hand sliding over Anders’ own pale thigh; what the elf might taste like, what he might say as Hawke’s hands clutch his hair, holding him steady as his cock moves in and out of Anders.  He swallows, wondering if…perhaps... Because Hawke had offered that once, had told him, _Anders, this doesn’t have to be the end._  But he could not stomach sharing, not back then when Hawke had asked; not with Fenris, not with anyone; not when he’d felt that what they’d had was so pure, so right.  The hurt was too fresh, the abandonment he’d felt at Hawke’s decision to return to Fenris was far too raw.  Tonight, though…

 

Tonight, he would take a tarnished jewel, just to have something to cling to in all of this.  Just for one night.  And if it meant sharing, if it meant knowing that he would always be second in Hawke’s heart, then perhaps that would be alright.  Perhaps he could live with that. _Hawke still wants you, and maybe Fenris… maybe he could too,_ Anders tells himself, _And even if they refuse you, at least then… at least then you’ll know._  Suddenly resolved, Anders uncrosses his legs and throws them over the side of the cot, his boots ringing on the stone floor.  He rises, pulling his cloak from the end of the cot and, throwing it over his shoulders, bends to blow out the candle.  Darkness swallows him.

 

-|||-

 

It is a risk, it is always a risk to come here after dark.  Hightown is bad enough by day - but by night, there seem to be countless enemies at large.  Anders pulls his threadbare cloak tighter around himself and walks quickly.  He sticks to the shadows, keeping the darkness around himself, hoping that… what?  That Hawke will be kind enough to say no quickly, that he will not embarrass him in front of Fenris as well?  That they will not laugh?   _Hawke wants you,_ _he still wants you_ , he tells himself, but what had seemed so certain in the bowels of Darktown now seems flimsy, thinner than the Chantry’s mercy.  He hitches in a shuddering breath, and his steps slow on the moonlit cobblestones.  Is he so desperate for attention, so starved for any kind of warmth or comfort that he would grovel for it?  He gasps, and shudders as he stands, conflicted, in the dark.  He _is_ desperate, there is no escaping it.  This may not cure him of the dreams, but surely it is better than nothing?  Anders nods, finally resolved, and quickens his pace, marching forward once more into the grim darkness.

 

The wind scatters the clouds over the fat moon, beginning to creep down from her zenith, making way for the sun.  The estates of the rich of Hightown loom over him, crammed together as if clustering in fear against the dark.  And here, only a few paces away now, is the door - his door, their door.  The door to the Hawke estate.

 

Before he can lose his courage entirely, he lifts a fist and hammers on the old oak.  The noise is horrible, over-loud, aggressive, and Anders gasps and steps back a pace.  The wait seems interminable - his stomach is in knots, tight, and then the door is pulled open.  “Hawke,” Anders tells the manservant, his voice cracking on the word, “I need to speak to Hawke.”

 

“At this hour?”  The dwarf blinks in confusion. “I am sorry, but Messere Hawke has retired for the…”

“No, no, please,” Anders gasps, and steps forward once more, shivering with anticipation.  “Please.  I need him.  Please, tell him I’m here.”

The dwarf frowns, but steps aside for him to enter.  “This is most irregular,” he mutters, “Is Messere Hawke in danger?”

 

Anders swallows, shakes his head, almost ready to push past the man himself, to stride up the stairs and shake Hawke awake if he has to.  The dwarf frowns up at him, perplexed, and then there is a familiar voice from somewhere that Anders’ cannot see.  “Bodahn?” Hawke asks, his voice concerned, “Who is it?”

“Me,” Anders says, just as the dwarf opens his mouth to speak, one hand still on the door.  “Hawke… please…”

“Anders?” The sound of footfalls, and then he stands there, it’s him, Hawke, Anders blinks at him as he stands in the doorway, bathed in the warm golden light of the lamps.  “Anders?  What is it?  What’s wrong?”

 

In that moment, Justice comes forward within Anders, sending a wave of uncertainty so strong that Anders gasps and doubles over, his hands going to his head.  “Anders!” he hears Hawke say, and then Anders feel strong arms bearing him up, taking his weight.  Hawke is there.  Anders rubs his forehead and tries to smile, to laugh it off, but can only huff out a breath.  “Maker, you’re shivering,” Hawke murmurs softly, and then asks, “Can you walk?  Come inside, Anders, come on.  Come and rest.”

 

The dwarf makes way for them as Hawke guides him slowly forward, one arm around his shoulders.  Together, they cross the threshold, and the dwarf closes the door behind them.

 

-|||-

 

Anders sits on the edge of the chaise, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a mug of something which smells of cloves and alcohol in his hands.  The fire crackles and pops, washing the room in bright orange light.  That is the only sound.  He can feel the weight of Hawke’s gaze and Fenris’ discomfort, but cannot bring himself to look at either of them.  

He raises the mug to his lips and takes a small sip, almost coughing it all back out again at the strength of the beverage.  Hawke takes a single step toward him.  Anders looks up quickly, sees the concern in Hawke’s eyes, and looks back down into his mug again.  Cautiously, he puts it on the floor, interlacing his fingers again, feeling the borrowed warmth of the liquid inside the mug slowly leave his chilly flesh.  He does not look up.  “I’m sorry,” he says, “This is stupid.  I know this isn’t… I know it’s probably not something you - either of you want, but…”  He takes a deep breath and blows it out again, “But I have to ask.”

 

Silence, stillness.  Anders bites his lip, takes a breath, then all in a rush tells them without looking up, “I want you to be with me.  Just…There’s no easy way to say this, but…”  He sighs, shakes his head, staring hard at his hands and takes another breath, trying to speak more slowly, though he feels as if all his words have deserted him.  “I remember what you said.  About how… it didn’t have to end.  And I know…”

 

He looks up then, imploringly to Hawke.  Hawke stares back, black eyes blazing.  His throat is tight, and he hears himself say as if from a distance, “Please.  I’m not too proud to beg.  You used to say I begged so well, remember?”  Clenching his jaw, Anders makes himself bear the weight of Hawke’s gaze upon him as he slides from the edge of the seat onto his knees, hands still clasped before him.  “I’m begging now.  Please.  I know… I know you don’t want me anymore.”  Anders looks from Hawke quickly in Fenris’ direction, but cannot bring himself to meet the elf’s eyes, or even to look at his face. “Fenris, I know I’m the last person you must want here, offering this.  But if there’s any way… anything I could do… for you, to you, either of you, both of you, I don’t care…”  Anders bites his lip and forces himself to stop babbling.  He sighs a slow breath into the warmth of the room.  “I just… just take me.  Use me.  I’m yours.”

 

Silence again.  The fire crackles and his knees ache a little.  Justice seethes under the surface of his skin, wondering; almost afraid, forced to acknowledge that Anders is acting from a desire which he has no hope of understanding. The room feels too hot, too still, until finally, Fenris shifts.  Anders looks up at him quickly, but Fenris has his back to the fire, his face shrouded in shadow, making his expression unreadable.  Anders swallows noisily and waits, looking once more at the floor.  Finally, Fenris shifts again, folding his arms and considering Anders for a moment, looking down to where he kneels between them, and then he looks across the room to Hawke.  “Well?” he growls, “What do you say to this?”

 

“Don’t know,” Hawke says softly.  He takes a deep breath in and cocks his head.  Anders turns his face to Hawke, watching him, begging with his eyes.  Hawke watches him for a moment, then slowly, deliberately, he takes a pace forward, and another, until he is standing over Anders, staring down at him.  His hand comes out and, taking Anders under the chin, he tilts his head up, until it is almost painful.  Anders hears his throat click, then whispers, “Please, Hawke.  Just tonight?”

 

He looks up at Hawke, watching his face carefully.  Hawke stares back, his expression seeming to shift in the bright light - first hunger, now concern, now confusion. “Just tonight,” he repeats, and his voice sounds lost.  Then Hawke takes a breath and looks once more to Fenris.  He must see something there, some nod or a look of approval, because he turns his gaze once more to Anders and tells him, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver of want through Anders body, “Get up.”

 

Anders scrambles to his feet, the blanket dropping from his shoulders.  Hawke drops his hand to Anders’ chest, and they stand there for a minute, just staring at one another.  Then Hawke looks over Anders’ shoulder and reaches one hand toward Fenris.  The hand which had been on his chest snakes around Anders’ waist, pulls him closer - and the movement is so natural that Anders moans, the noise low in his throat.

Hawke smirks, his gaze sliding sideways, toward Anders.  Then he takes a deep breath and sighs it all out again, his other arm going around Fenris, their bodies tucking neatly together.  Fenris stares at Anders, his gaze unreadable still, in spite of the brilliant light of the fire washing his features in gold.  Hawke nuzzles his nose and lips into the white hair, squeezing the elf to him.  “Is this alright?” he murmurs, and Fenris cocks his head, leaning it against Hawke’s arm.  Still staring at Anders as if appraising him, his mouth works a little.  Then Fenris narrows his eyes and says, “You will not use magic.”

 

It’s not a question.  Anders blinks, feeling his own irritation, trying to ignore it.  Fenris’ expression changes slightly and he draws breath, bites his lip quickly, then says softly, “It hurts.”

Hawke looks at Fenris as he speaks, then nuzzles the top of his head again.  The care, the love in the gesture is so apparent that it makes Anders almost ill.  And yet the rawness in Fenris’ tone, the  brutal honesty of the comment, it makes his heart beat faster, makes his stomach drop with anticipation.  He trusts you, he thinks wonderingly, and the thought makes him frown in confusion.  “No,” Anders says, “No, I won’t.  I promise.  Is… is there anything else?”

 

“Only one thing,” Fenris raises his chin slightly and looks at Anders challengingly, before saying, “You will do as Hawke says.  Exactly as he says.  Both you… and your… spirit.”

Anders clenches his jaw, but nods.  Justice roils within him, feeling deeply uncertain, and Anders tries to quiet him.   _Everything’s fine,_ he tells the spirit, but his thoughts seem to have no effect.  “Alright,” he says and licks his lips.  “No magic.  Do as Hawke says.  That’s fine.”

“Good,” Hawke says, and his voice is rough, deep.  He sighs, a short breath, and releases Fenris, who smiles at him.  “Anders,” Hawke says as his hands shift on Anders’ waist as he steps behind him slightly.  He feels Hawke nuzzle against his neck, then his lips are against Anders’ ear to purr, “Put your hands behind your back for me.”

 

Anders swallows, suddenly nervous.   _This is it,_ he thinks, and closes his eyes, clasping his hands behind his back as Hawke had ordered.  He feels it as the slow creep of want suffuses him, working outward through his body, emanating from his cock.  The desire seems to pool between his hips, hot and barren; Justice echoes the words _are you sure?_ around in his head, but the question seems so distant, almost surreal - especially when Hawke slides one hand around his throat, and the other begins sliding his shirt out of the waistband of his trousers.  

“Pretty,” Hawke croons, his breath hot over the shell of Anders' ear, “Open your legs a little now.”  Anders hears the smile in Hawke’s voice as he says, “Fen?  What do you want to do?”

 

Anders moans, feels his whole body tighten with anticipation.  Fenris is silent for a time, and Anders' eyes flutter open, his fingers clutching at his own sleeves.  “Fenris,” he sighs, “Please…”

“Now, now,” Hawke growls, “Fen knows what he’s doing.  Come on, darling, don’t keep us in suspense.”  Anders hears Fenris snort, and then he feels Fenris approach.  He can feel the warmth of Fenris’ body, and then that low, seductive voice tells him, “I want you in my mouth, Anders.  I want to suck your cock until you’re almost ready to spill down my throat.  Then I want to watch Hawke fuck you while I fuck your mouth.”  A pause, then Fenris asks, “Would that be acceptable?”

 

“I… I… yes,” Anders pants, “Maker, yes, please, suck me off, I wanna… just…”  But before he can finish the train of thought, Hawke’s fingers snake further up Anders' throat, pulling his head backwards, the palm coming to rest flat against Anders' mouth.  “That’s enough from you,” Hawke tells him, “If you want to stop, you can tap my stomach with your hand, twice in a row.  Do it for me now.”

Anders whines, the sound muffled behind Hawke’s hand, and taps as he’s been ordered.  “Good boy,” Hawke tells him, and then Anders feels Hawke’s head shift to look down, over Anders’ shoulder.  Hawke runs a hand up his chest, against his skin, exposing his stomach to the air, and rubs a calloused thumb against one nipple.  Ander’s breath comes heavy, panting through his nose, the breath leaving Hawke’s hand damp, and he arches his body back, thrusting with his hips into the air.  His cock jerks with the motion, and he whines again, the pitch changing as he feels fingers loosening the fastenings of his trousers.

 

“That’s it,” Hawke tells him, his voice gone low, almost harsh.  “Fen’s gonna take care of you, he’s gonna take all the worry out of that pretty little head of yours.”  Anders gasps when he feels his cock exposed, completely hard now.   _too much_ , Justice whispers, and minutely, Anders shakes his head.   _No,_ he thinks, trying to calm himself, beginning to feel swept away on this tide of precarious desire.   _No, no, not too much.  Not enough._  He fists his fingers into the front of Hawke’s shirt as Fenris licks a long stripe up his cock; his breath ghosts again over it, and Anders bucks his hips and whimpers.  “Now, now,” Hawke growls again, and Anders thinks he hears Fenris chuckle before he opens his mouth and takes Anders’ cock in.

Fenris sucks on the head, one hand wrapping securely around the base.  Anders gasps and groans loudly, pulling on the fabric in his hands, barely feeling Hawke’s fingers pinching his nipple now.  “Oh, pretty,” Hawke breathes, and Anders feels Hawke’s stiff cock move against his flank, as he ruts slowly against his thigh.  “Fen, my darling, you look so beautiful.  So very beautiful.”

 

Fenris works his hand up and down the shaft of Anders’ cock, and Anders’ toes curl inside his boots.   _So beautiful,_ he thinks incoherently, and then something in him recalls the same tones in Hawke’s voice when he had told him the same thing.  “So beautiful,” the Hawke in his mind’s ear repeats as he tucks a strand of sweaty hair behind Anders' ear - “So beautiful,” he repeats again, smiling at him in the gloaming of their tent on the Wounded Coast in the early morning.  Anders gasps a huge breath through Hawke’s fingers, his eyes opening, blurred with sudden tears, the smell and taste of Hawke’s skin almost overwhelming with the feeling of Fenris’ mouth on his cock and suddenly, he feels utterly, utterly alone.   _Please!_ is all he has time to think, and then Justice is there.

 

Huge strength flows into his hands, and Justice taps twice, hard, on Hawke’s stomach.  Hawke hisses in a breath, flinching backwards.  And then the bright blue-white light is in front of his eyes, and Justice tells them, “ _No_.”

He feels Hawke’s presence at his back, feels the man’s confusion.  But this - this is too much.  Anders struggles, trying to exert control again, and Justice sends a wave of certainty, hoping to allay Anders fear.  Breathing deep, knowing by now that this is a good way to quell the physical effects of Anders’ panic, he looks down at Fenris, who has scrambled back from their body, his expression alive with fear.

Justice crouches down, the better to look at the elf.  For a moment, he watches, sorry to see the recrimination in the elf’s face.  “I apologise,” he murmurs, “I did not mean to frighten you.  Either of you.”  He turns, looking over their shoulder at Hawke, who stares at him agape, “But I have to know.  Tell me - is this love?”

 

The fire crackles.  Hawke looks at them, open-mouthed.  “I… I… is _what_ love?” he asks finally, and Justice turns Anders away from him.

“Can you tell me?” he asks Fenris, who only shakes his head.  Justice sighs.  

“I am… most confused.  Anders loves you.  Respects you.  This is all he thought you would want from him.  In truth, this is all he thought he could bear - seeing you together, knowing what he had lost, for no reason other than what seemed to him a whim.  And it hurts him so much.  It hurts us.” He pauses, puts Anders’ hand on his chest, and they look at the floor before Justice repeats, “It hurts.”

 

The air is quiet and full of tension.  Finally, Hawke speaks.  “Feelings will do that,” he says, and on the surface his tone is jocular - but underneath, there is something else.  Something real.  Justice looks up at him, sees his mouth work, watches as his eyes flick to Fenris, who still crouches on the floor.  Then Hawke crosses his arms, looking suddenly fragile and old, and he shakes his head.  “I don’t know how to do this,” he says quietly, smiling in a dismal fashion.  “I never stopped loving you, Fen - you know that.  But…”  he looks up quickly to Justice, then back down at the carpet, his gaze heavy with shame.  “I never stopped loving you… I mean, I never stopped loving both of you either.  Anders and you.  I don’t know.  It’s fucked up.  Maybe _I’m_ fucked up, I don’t…”

 

“You are not,” Fenris growls, and looks at Justice from his crouch.  He pauses, coiled, seeming to be steeling himself for an effort, and then he rises in one fluid motion.  Slowly, he approaches Justice, still kneeling on the floor, and holds his hand out.  It hangs in mid-air for a moment, until Justice reaches up, taking Fenris’ hand, and Fenris hauls them to their feet.  They stand together, linked, Fenris looking up at them, his expression difficult to read.  Then he drops his eyes and speaks.  

“It is not love,” he tells the spirit, “But it could be.  If, as you say, there is… a mutual feeling… Certainly, there is something here.  I do not know how to proceed.  But I know that it is not my intention to hurt anyone with this.”  Fenris frowns and takes a deep breath, then looks away again.  Justice feels Anders’ confusion, his pleasure, and they sigh.  

“I do not understand any of this,” Justice tells Fenris.  “But I know what Anders feels, and I sense some of what is in you both.  There is something here, something worth fighting for; something that sustains through hardship.”  He pauses, glancing at Hawke, who clenches his jaw and nods.  

 

And with that, the amber returns to Anders’ eyes - the bright light of the Fade disappears from his skin.  He swallows and blinks, and tries a tentative smile.  He does not know what to say.  Part of him wants desperately to leave, to forget this ever happened, and he shifts, ready to tuck his flaccid cock back into his trousers and flee, but Fenris squeezes his hand.  Anders looks at him, sees the small smile tucked into the corner of the elf’s mouth, and smiles ruefully in return.  

 

“Well,” Hawke sighs, “That was a shitload more adventure than I had planned for this evening.”  He laughs dismally, and rubs one hand over his beard, looking down at the floor, pensive. “Hey,” he says slowly, “Anders?  Do you… want to stay?”

 

Anders looks at him - those dark eyes, the sad, sweet expression.  Yes, rises to his lips and he takes a breath, ready to give the word voice, and then he glances at Fenris.  “I… don’t want to…” he begins, then bites his lips together.  Fenris snorts.

“Stay,” he says, and squeezes Anders’ hand again, “please stay.”  He smiles gently, and tells Anders, “We have much to talk over.  Please stay tonight.”

 

-|||-

 

The sun pours through the slatted windows, and something in him feels lighter than ever.

 

They had fallen asleep eventually, half-unclothed and wrapped in each others arms in Hawke’s bed after talking for what seemed an age.  And it feels like the most natural thing, to wake with Hawke’s arm around his shoulders, Fenris curled into his back as if protecting him.  Anders smiles, blinks sleepily and yawns.  Hawke chuckles and murmurs raspily, “Wondered when you’d wake up.”

“Shh,” Anders whispers, “You’ll wake Fenris.”

“Fenris is already awake,” comes the low growl from behind him, “Fenris does not know why.  Is this morning?”  Fenris grunts disgustedly, “Tell them to take it back.  I do not want it.”

 

“Grumpy bastard,” Hawke says, and stretches ostentatiously.  Anders’ hand moves over his bare stomach, the thick hair and soft skin under his palm, and he smiles, kisses his arm.  Hawke grunts and puts his hand under the blankets to move Anders’ hand lower, until it curls around his stiff cock through his smalls.  Anders chuckles.  “Subtle,” he murmurs, and feels Fenris’ hand snake over his hip, grasp his cock firmly.  Anders moans quietly at the touch, feeling the way that Fenris’ length, hot, hard, grinds into the cleft of his ass.  “You’re both subtle,” he amends, and Fenris laughs quietly.  

“I do not want Hawke to be the centre of all your attention,” he murmurs and nuzzles his nose across Anders’ shoulder before kissing it lightly.  Fenris shifts himself then, moving up to rest on one elbow, his head leaning on his hand.  “I am glad to have you here, Anders.”

 

“He’s pretty in the morning, isn’t he?” Hawke grins, and shifts as well as he turns to face Anders.  He tucks a skein of hair behind Anders' ear, and winks, before telling him, “Pretty fuckable.”

Anders sighs in amused chagrin.  He rolls his hips backwards into Fenris again, moves his hand on Hawke’s cock.  “You’ll have to be more convincing than that, I’m afraid.”

 

“Really?  Because…” Hawke’s eyes go half-lidded for a moment, and his smile increases, “You don’t seem like you’d take a lot of convincing.”

“Convincing is part of the fun,” Fenris murmurs, and kisses the skin of Anders’ shoulder, moving toward his neck.  The kisses are soft, lingering; and for every kiss, there is a firm shift of his hips against Anders’ ass.  The hand on Anders’ hips moves forward, around to the front of his body, and Fenris runs his fingers lightly up the length of his cock.  Anders sighs through his nose, arches his hips backwards again, and groans.  Then he laughs.  “Alright!  I give up.”

 

“Too easy,” Fenris purrs, still moving his fingers over Anders’ cock without grasping it - that light, maddening touch.  Anders opens his eyes and blinks when he sees Hawke looking at him worriedly.

“Are you sure this is alright?” Hawke asks, and bends forward, kissing Anders’ forehead.  “I mean, I’m not gonna argue with you, but… You know we want you here, right?  For more than just a night.  But only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Anders tells him and smiles.  That deep, warm feeling of buoyancy within him grows, and it is with some surprise that he realises it is Justice.  The spirit has never felt this way before, not to him, not since their initial joining.  Are you alright? he asks it, and Justice responds wordlessly, sending coils and great loops of satisfaction through his body and, coupled with the delicious lightness of being, it is almost too much.  Anders gasps, feels tears prickle the edges of his eyes, and then smiles.  “Yes,” he says, and looks at Hawke, “Yes.  We’re sure.”

 

“Alright,” Hawke murmurs, and his hands move over Anders’ body, stroking.  He kisses Anders, his face, his lips and forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks.  Anders laughs, trying to chase Hawke’s mouth with his own, one hand going backwards, pulling Fenris’ body closer.  For a while, all is warm entanglement - fabric shunted aside by restless hands, kisses turning hungry.  Anders gasps again as fingers rub impatiently against his ass, as his cock is pulled at, teeth at the juncture of his neck and shoulder; he moans as breath tickles over the top of his ear, and he feels Hawke push down his underwear.  “Anders,” Hawke growls, “Maker, this feels… you feel…”

 

But the words are lost.  Anders struggles up with difficulty, moving to straddle Hawke’s hips, Fenris following him.  The elf’s lips are soft on Anders’ now, soft and insistent, and he moves over Hawke, straddling his chest, facing Anders.  “Fuck yeah,” Hawke groans, and shifts - from the way Hawke’s abdominal muscles tense, and the way that Fenris’ nostrils flare and his mouth drops open, Anders imagines that Hawke has buried his face in Fenris’ ass.  He grins, writhing over Hawke’s hips, moving back and forth in a rhythm.  Hawke gives a muffled groan, and his hands pull Fenris’ hips backwards.  Fenris groans and his hands drop from Anders’ shoulders, one going to Anders’ cock, the other on his own.

 

And his touch, there is something electric, something beautiful, in it.  Fenris’ long, elegant fingers, their white-blue markings gleaming palely in the shuttered morning sunlight, they wrap around Anders’ cock - the grip at first firm, then soft, the rhythm almost in time with Anders’ heartbeat.  Anders works his hips forward and back, matching the rhythm of Fenris’ hand, the muscles of his asscheeks catching Hawke’s cock between them.  Fenris drags a thumb over the head of Anders’ cock, making him moan piteously, and he whimpers, “Faster, Maker, please Fen…”

 

Fenris doesn’t reply.  Anders slits his eyes open, watching the fall of Fenris’ hair over his brow shake as he fucks into his own fist, the delicious, wet sound of Hawke’s mouth on his ass, the way that Hawke’s fingers dig into the flesh of his hips.  Justice curls deep, mimicking the spread of pleasure through Anders’ body.  Together, they ride the crest of it, building and building.   _Doesn’t have to be the end_ , Anders thinks disjointedly, knowing this is just the beginning, knowing that this will never end, not now.  Fenris’ hands on him, the slide of the muscles of Fenris’ shoulder, Hawke’s stomach under his hands, it is glorious, distant and close all at once.  “Fen, fuck,” Hawke moans, then, “An...Anders, I…”

 

Fenris grunts, some word which sounds sharp and hissing all at once, then his grip tightens on Anders, almost to the point of pain.  It feels… Maker, it feels so good, Anders’ toes curl, his breath stutters in his lungs and there he is, hanging at the zenith, almost outside himself completely now, all his muscles tense, time stilled around them.  Then, Fenris gives a short, hoarse shout, Anders’ fingers claw into his shoulder as he comes with a curtailed whine and a string of swear words he does not feel his mouth form.  His hips move of their own accord, faster, faster, in that moment, then slowing as he glides back to earth.

 

Hawke moans, Anders’ feels him bucking against his ass from beneath, tries to tighten his thighs and buttocks.  Hawke’s thrusts grow wilder, almost pushing Anders into Fenris, who removes his hand from Anders and gazes at it with half-lidded eyes, begins to lick the come off.  “Fuck,” Anders murmurs, and then Hawke shouts loudly, wordlessly.  Anders grins as he feels come slick the surface of his skin, sees the way that Hawke’s nails leave deep half-crescents in the skin of Fenris’ hips.  He sighs, and glances at Fenris, who returns his gaze and leans forward, thighs straining.  

 

Gently, he kisses Anders’ mouth, and Anders tastes himself there.  His hand goes to Fenris’ hair, and he feels a sense of awe, of huge, astonished delight, and doesn’t know if it is his own feelings or those of Justice.  It hardly matters now.  Because now, the dreams will end, because no dream could ever improve this - no more loneliness, no more wondering.  He feels Hawke’s hand find his thigh and rests his own hand over it.   _This is love,_ he thinks, and it feels as if Justice smiles.

 

* * *

 

And here is Mevi's beautiful art!  Thank you again, sweets - it was a joy and a pleasure to work with you.


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